“I’m sure Nancy will be overjoyed to see you.”
“Every summer is a new beginning, that’s what I’ve learned. I don’t have to carry the past with me. My approach to the dangers of reproduction is my choice. I am in charge of who I am and how I view things. I own my fears.”
“That’s a wise—”
“I’ve had my eyes opened. We had many group discussions as we were migrating, and I was given to realize that certain experiences I had as a duckling have had a strong impact on my worldview, especially the death of Male No. 3, who was just above me in the nest, taken by a hawk right out of the middle of the group, and then the hawk, instead of flying away, swooped around us the whole time my mother was hurrying us to shelter. I mean, this is not an unusual experience for mallards, but I think that I must be especially sensitive, which is nothing to be ashamed of. This autumn alone, humans shot two of our flock right out of the sky as we were flying over Marmande. Did we stop? Did we panic? No, we bade them adieu and flew onward. But I’ve come to understand the effect of duckling experiences much more thoroughly now, and also to understand fate. Fate is simply fate—you are here or you are not. You have to yield to the nature of the cosmos.”
“Very true,” said Raoul.
“I’m glad we’ve had this talk,” said Sid.
“Yes,” said Raoul.
“By the way,” said Sid, “you should explore this area. If I thought I could get Nancy away from that pond by the tower, I would bring her here. It’s very lively.”
“I hardly know how I got here,” said Raoul. “I usually go east.”
“As the raven flies,” said Sid, “it’s forty-five degrees southeast, about an hour’s flight if you aren’t in a rush.”
“I’m not in a rush,” said Raoul, stretching his wings.
“You can go with me. We are taking off in a bit. I leave the group at Nanterre. They are all from around Le Chesnay. They live in the country. Very sane compared with us Parisians.”
Raoul wondered what those ravens he had seen would think of a Corvus of his stature flying off with a pack of lowly mallards, but then he said, “Yes, I think I will go along with you.”
Sid said, “Happy to have you, believe me. I’ll explain who you are. Everyone’s eager to get home. You might want to keep your opinions to yourself, however. Just a suggestion.”
Raoul cawed softly, then said, “I understand.”
All of the mallards were young, healthy, and well traveled. They were, of course, Anas platyrhynchos, so their conversation (to which Raoul did not contribute) was about feats of strength or endurance—what regions they had visited, where they planned to visit in the future. They all had mates, but everyone except Sid chatted easily about other females they had gotten to know, offspring they suspected they had in various far-flung districts. Raoul felt that it was not his task to judge. Every Avis knew that mallards had their place in the avian world, and in many ways, their place was as game. Sure enough, Sid knew exactly where Nanterre was. He was flying with the group, and then, without even looking around, or down, he lifted his right wing and tilted away from the others. Raoul followed him. When they were floating smoothly above the Paris suburbs, he said, “How do you do that?”
“Just pay attention to the signs, is all.”
“The signs?”
“You know, the magnetic grid. There’s a little interference around here, but not much. My first time coming home, a few years ago, I ended up in Orléans for the night, but haven’t made a mistake since. You get more sensitive with practice. You ravens…?” After a moment, Raoul said, “Corvus are more locally oriented, I guess you would say.”
Sid made his little meep-meep noise, and they flew on. They were at the Tour by late afternoon. Raoul landed on one of its rungs and watched Sid hit the water, swim in a circle, and then head toward the nest. One by one, the ducklings popped up; then they formed a group, and Nancy, her wings lifted and her neck arched, herded them toward their sire. She was quacking like mad—Here he is, don’t be shy, close up on the right there, go on, move on, quack-quack-quack. Sid did not come out of the water, but swam quietly in circles, and one by one, the little brown birdlets came to the edge and launched themselves toward him. Pretty soon, the whole family was swimming around that end of the pond, and the humans below Raoul were exclaiming and cooing at the sight. If Raoul had ever seen a human who didn’t turn to mush at the sight of a baby animal, he couldn’t remember when that was. Nancy’s loud quacking subsided, and everyone swam in peace.
How long had Raoul been away? Since sunrise, maybe. Not much of a circuit. (He had to admit that, in spite of himself, he was impressed by the grandness of the mallards’ journey—to a place where barren mountains stretched from sea to sea, and steam rose right out of the ground, where daylight gave way to almost no darkness, and they met Aves that had traveled from places ravens did not know existed.) Yes, the mallards had met the legendary Sterna paradisaea, white Aves with black heads, who cared for nowhere on Earth except the farthest north and the farthest south. Most Corvus pooh-poohed their existence. Could it be possible, thought Raoul, that Corvi did not know what they were talking about? Raoul sighed, lifted off the tower, and headed toward the Rue Marinoni.
MADAME DE MORNAY HAD MISSED May Day. Her mother had loved May Day, every year had made for Madame (in those days, Mademoiselle Éveline, of course), with her own hands, a little sachet of flowers. At any rate, when she was a child, she and her mother and brother had celebrated by eating only what they most enjoyed, whatever it was—it could be foie gras and meringues or it could be champagne and morels sautéed in butter, it could be lime sorbet and a wedge of goat cheese. Whatever appealed to them on that very day was what they ate their fill of. And so, one morning, though she could not say what day it was, when she opened her window, even she could smell that her lilacs were in bloom, that the scent was like a mist, entering and filling up the room. Invigorating. And so she found the trolley, and when she came upon Étienne, who was sweeping the corridor between the grand salon and the cuisine, she put her arm around him and suggested they go to the market. Since his great-grandmama had not seemed well or happy in weeks, Étienne at once put away his broom, took hold of the trolley, and guided Madame out the door, leaving it open so that Paras could go outside when she had finished her breakfast. He hoped very much that the raven, who was sitting on the horse’s haunches in the cuisine, and Kurt, who was sitting on a shelf above the basin, would exit with her. He liked them, but they were becoming unmanageable.
Usually, Étienne walked slowly, sometimes very slowly, and Madame de Mornay tottered along behind him, Frida on the alert. Étienne didn’t know whether Madame was curious about Frida—she never alluded to her or asked about her, but when her hand went out, flailing a bit, and Frida stepped up and pressed against her leg to steady her, Madame understood what was happening, and accepted the assistance. Today, though, Étienne had to exert himself to stay ahead of his great-grandmama, she was walking so fast. When they got to the vegetable market, the first thing she did was take Jérôme’s hand and give it a good squeeze. But she was difficult to please—Jérôme showed her the best new peas, the best baby artichokes, the best bouquets of basil, new potatoes, watercress. She touched it, she smelled it, she shook her head. Perhaps a little frustrated, she went to the flowers, and chose two pots of sweet William, already in bloom. Étienne recognized them—they’d been in the garden, but not for a couple of years. She came back to the vegetables. She stood in the middle of the shop, her hands lifted and her eyes closed. Jérôme and two other customers gazed at her in a kindly manner, but Étienne was a little worried—he had never seen her do this before. Finally, she stepped forward and let her hands drop, and there was the asparagus, a mound of slender stalks. She smiled, took two handfuls. She gave Jérôme the money and refused the change. Jérôme laughed and slipped it to Étienne. Now the meat market. Suzanne, the meat seller, was not as good-natured as Jérôme, but today she was patient, only staring at Frida for a moment, and stepping back as Madame entered the shop. Madame, of course, couldn’t touch anything, but she walked along the length of the counter, whispering to Étienne—chicken, filet mignon, sausage, veal, pork chops, lamb. She could not decide. Alise waited, tapping her pack of cigarettes with her fingertips. Étienne hoped that his great-grandmama would not choose something so exotic that he couldn’t manage to prepare it. Finally, she said, “Some confit! Ah, that would be very good.”